Maestro and Apprentice
by ankatheplague
Summary: -Say, Fife, do you know what shall the artist do when he is surrounded by pitiful worms, such as you? -No... But if there is... anything I can help you with, I am always here for you!


He threw the sheets aside. The lines were written, then rewritten, then written again.

No, no! It is all so simplistic and primitive, it doesn't deserve his hand, it doesn't deserve the hand of Great Maestro Forte! He put his head on his hands.

The inspiration has abandoned him.

The great minds of the past advice him to search for inspiration in nature.

But no, no!

Even birds' chatter sounded overly cheerful for him!

Even roses of castle's garden remind him of all those fake, puffy courtiers.

Even the large marble fountain seemed to leak with deception!

Or maybe he should play that? The atmosphere of falseness, that invisible filth, which covers entire castle, that spider web in which people live and die?

"The Symphony of Deception", sounds alluring.

But doesn't every human who lives here have his tune flowing to it? Whose voice doesn't ring in it? Well maybe the voice of young Prince, who lacks experience and practice needed in the great art of lying. But his melody had been written long time ago, and since then there were no changes in their capricious master.

Whom, what should he play? He played every single human being in this bloody castle from his stupid apprentice to their precious cook-lady.

Nothing. Only venom, that fills the emptiness of his soul.

How mad is he! At himself, at the castle, at the world! Does he ask for much? Only a tiny sparkle of inspiration to write simplest melody for tomorrow's concert.

Faint footsteps behind his back.

Apprentice, who else!

Who else can be idiotic enough to disturb the silent flow of his dark thoughts?

-Maestro… Are you alright? You didn't leave your room this entire day. I thought…

-Am I alright? – He was always told that he was too irritable, too prone to mindless wrath. It seems they were right. He stood up and shoved some sheets at the Apprentice's face. – Look. What do you see?

Minion's eyes ran over the crossed lines as he managed to mutter:

-Your work, Maestro…

-Work? Work?! You call _that_ «work»?! It is a complete and utter litter, for Lord's sake! – sheets scattered over the floor and Apprentice hurried to pick them – But whom do I ask? A pathetic fawner, worthless, feeble sycophant!

Apprentice lifted his shoulders and covered his mouth with sheets, understanding and accepting words of his mentor. Still he was not ready to such reception, which showed on his quivering voice:

-You are just out of inspiration, Maestro…

-Just?! Just?! You have an interesting understanding of the word "just". Tell me, Apprentice, do you know what shall the artist do when he is surrounded by pitiful worms, such as you?

-I don't know, but… But Maestro… If _you_ need my help, one way or another, I am always here for you.

Forte sighed. What kind of help does this flea have to offer? The boy wants to become a composer but is not capable of anything above repeating his mentor's melodies with a flute. He is the same foul hypocrite as anyone in this bloody castle, the pure embodiment of deception!

Wait…

The Pure…

Embodiment...

Of Deception!

He smiled in a way, quite close to the ways of demons painted at the castle's church in vivid detail.

Apprentice backed away.

-Say, Apprentice – he started to slowly circle his apprentice and, on the way, looked behind the door. Nobody. The door closed tight – What shall one do with deception? It is like paint, covering soul layer by layer.

Apprentice touched his bow nervously. He started to panic.

-The paint can be w-washed or scraped away, Maestro.

-By something sharp, right? And what is the human's sharpest feeling, huh, Apprentice?

-F-fear, Maestro?

-Fear and Pain, Apprentice, Fear and Pain. Those two feelings do wonders – he narrowed the circle to Apprentice's great unrest – Next, why do simple and low beings deceive others? What for?

-T-to look better than they actually are, M-maestro?

-Right! Now, what can frighten the being who is so concerned with seeming better than it actually is?

-Humiliation, Maestro?

-Precisely. Humiliation, Pain and Fear. Now, name me a way to deal with such being, which concludes all those emotions?

Apprentice wiped sweat off his neck.

-Torture… Maestro?

-No, no, no, no – he shook his head – Torture is a deed for the executioners, not for the artists. Foul, coarse invention of simple-minded beings. I am not saying, that what I have in mind is much purer than it, but still not so shamefully crude. Besides, the way I am talking about rarely leaves any visible marks, unlike torture. No, it leaves much lighter marks, almost invisible, but aching and not healing.

He stepped dangerously close to Apprentice.

-You are not as idiotic, as I thought. So name me the way which I plan to use on you in order to wipe away the deception you reek – he lifted Apprentice's face by his chin - Painful, frightening and humiliating, which wouldn't leave any visible marks, of which you will never tell anyone. Ever.

Apprentice stepped away. Forte hasn't seen such terror in anyone's eyes for quite a time. Such endearing sight.

The sheets fell at the floor.

Wonderful.

At least some tiny part of deception is gone.

Forte slammed him against the wall. His henchman grasps his shoulders with shaking hands, tries to get away, though he has nowhere to move. It won't last long. Apprentice doesn't have strength and courage to struggle for very long.

Already? His faithful servant barely stands on his shaking feet.

-M-maestro, plea… please.

-What was that, my boy? – he asked in the most venomous way possible, brushing his nose against the wet cheek of his prey.

-Maestro, please, don't, I-I beg of you, don… – Forte covered his mouth with his hand.

-Shhh. There is no use to it. I always finished what I've started. Though, I am startled with how easily your façade comes off... Mere minutes ago you were so disgusting. What did you count on, using those cheap tricks, fawning over me, doing anything I may ask? You are not that stupid of a boy. You must have understood that even if you brought me your heart on a silver plate you have no chance to become my First Apprentice – bony fingers moved over Fife's heaving chest – Though, I would love to see such a funny display.

Apprentice closed his eyes not wanting to see those fingers stop to fiddle with the first button of his trousers.

-But maybe you longed to draw my attention to you? Maybe you were enjoying yourself, being _so_ submissive to your Maestro, to that "half-crazed old man" as they call me in the castle? Maybe you really liked my music? – Apprentice cringed, but didn't do anything to stop him - What is that? You are crying? Too soon, my boy, too soon.

Forte smiled. If it wasn't for those hands holding him poor minion would bend inwards, trying to hide himself from this shameful position. But now he could only lower his head, pale and weeping with shame.

-Chin up, eyes open, my boy. I want to see that.

Such a pleasant sight – wet eyelashes, eyes dim with horror and anticipation of pain. He removed his hand from that childish mouth replacing it with his own dry lips.

So is that the smell of deception? Cheap powder and stolen cologne (off course it was stolen, where would poor flutist have money to buy it?) mixed with his own faint odour. Pleasurable.

-You would not scream, would you? – he whispered right into henchman's ear, receiving a faint nod – You would not. You have no one to come and get you, and you know it. No one to hear you, for everyone is used to noise I make during my searches.

Just a faint whimper. He seemed to re-realize the humiliating horror of his position but didn't say anything.

-As much as I would love to prolong this moment, – he pressed Apprentice's back against the wall, pushing his skinny legs apart – But it should come, should not it?

Forte never thought that someone could scream that loud. He barely managed to cover boy's mouth. Naturally, in that part of the castle nobody would hear him, but still there is no need to raise more suspicions.

-You promised not to scream – Apprentice was stiff with pain, unable to say anything – Does it hurt that much, my boy?

-Y-yes, Good Lord, yes.

-Should I give you some time to adjust? It will feel much better soon, my boy, it will feel much better – he wiped off Apprentice's tears – It is almost like music. You can feel the rhythm.

He waited. Poor boy, all shaking, all soaked in sweat, all crying, his head on his mentor's shoulder.

-Feeling better? Shall I continue?

-Yes, Maestro, y-yes.

How long haven't he felt that! That pleasant heat between his hips, that warmth of another's body, that tingling pain of fingers digging themselves in his shoulders.

How shall he play it, he wondered? He remembered Apprentice's melody he composed several months ago.

Yes.

Something like this.

Plain and sweet melody fades away, bends with sounds of bated breath, with fearful tears, becoming more sharp, more nervous, turning into sounds of quiet sobs, and then… Moans of pain, the warm shudder of young body and it's pleasant weight, panting, heaving chest, and no even _**signs**_ of deception left.

-Maestro… Please… Enough…

-Not enough until _**I**_ say so!

It seems, Fife is not the only one dropping his façade.

Forte had finally broken loose of his mask too. And what is behind it? Well… Some people call their Prince a Beast. Fools. They have no idea who is a _**real**_ Beast here.

But how hard is it, to remain cold and thoughtful, when he can practically feel this wonderful fire of youth in his arms!

-Maestro... I can't...

-Silence, you wretched boy!

Sobbing pleas dissolved into the hellish music filling his mind, rising every moment like a fire sea…

And, at last, peak of demonic delight, crack of fallen masks, of broken innocence!

Silence. Soft whimpers, voiceless sobs.

His music was over. But there is something left, the last accord of humiliation, crescendo of abasement.

He allowed Apprentice, whining with pain, to lower to the floor and sat by his side.

-So – he lit his pipe and let out a little cloud of smoke in Apprentice's face – I think, you have got what you wanted, have not you? Is not that what all the humble admirers desire? To absorb a bit of their Idol, to consume part of His essence? To be filled with Him, to lose their worthless selves in Him? Wasn't it what you wanted?

Apprentice didn't say anything. But Forte could see that sweet shade of blush appearing on his cheeks.

-Apprentice, I am waiting.

Quietly, unwilling to confess it even to himself:

-Yes, Maestro.

-You are supposed to be grateful to me then, eh, Apprentice?

His minion didn't hear anything. He curled himself up against wall, filthy and exhausted.

Forte laughed. Whatever. They will have plenty of time to discuss it.

In the morning.

His concerts never were _such_ a success. The audience was roaring and clapping, even their Prince, capricious nuisance boy, was captivated and _**listened**_ to every sound!

Forte walked to his room, still intoxicated with triumph and applause. There was no place for the regret left in him. Apprentice ceased to exist, becoming just a material, a wood, from witch beautiful violin was born.

He does not matter.

What does matter, is the melody Forte holds to his chest, finished, written and dried, glistening with emerald ink, like coils of exotic snake…

-Maestro…

Apprentice.

Funny, when did he manage to sneak out of the room? He didn't find him in the mourning. Strange, considering, that Forte haven't slept all night – writing, walking, looking for the right shade of melody. But in such state would he be able to hear sounds of those light steps? Of course not.

-I just wanted to… Thank you, Maestro. Your music today, the _way_ you played, it was just…

-And what about what I have done to you? – he asked with a smug grin - Was _it_, worth the creation of such melody?

-Of course, of course, Maestro, of course!

Forte smiled. Such a sweet child.

-Does it still hurt? – he asked, when the boy snuggled up to him, eyes closed with pleasure.

-It's nothing, Maestro. I can stand it. For you, I can stand it.

-We'll see what we can do about the pain, _my_ boy – Forte drawled, running his fingers through minion's hair.

What a strange feeling… Does he feel… Guilty, about doing that vile disgusting thing to his minion?

Nonsense. He knows that others do those things with from little to no remorse, not thinking, not caring. So why does he hold this boy like a fragile vial now?

Because that boy is something more than a usual sycophant. His wish to succumb is sincere, not mercantile, but also is so perverted, so insane, that it adds him certain…

Appeal.

How to explain the rapid beat of his heart, when this boy's silky head rested against his chest, other than that this creature, so pure, so selfless and passionate, managed to touch the heart of an artist?

He remembered how years ago he argued with one old composer, stating that there is no true beauty in the innocence, for innocence is nothing but a phase, characterized by lack of experience, romanticized stupidity and hollowness. Old composer only smiled and said that he will understand the beauty of innocence with time. Then he was outraged, furious about such a stupid counter-evidence, but now…

Now he was peaceful to understand, that old composer was completely, and irrevocably right.


End file.
